


defile

by dustofwarfare



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bondage, Consensual, F/M, Hatesex, Knifeplay, References to Pre-Canon Events, Verdant Wind route, disturbing imagery, intensely weird porn, references to Canon typical violence, shades of monsters, talk of murder as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare
Summary: The night before the battle against Nemesis and the 10 elites, Rhea finds her ancient enemy waiting for her on the Goddess's throne. A reunion of sorts ensues.(Verdant Wind route)
Relationships: Rhea/Nemesis, Seiros/Nemesis
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	defile

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely based on [this art by Moonmikkyu (NSFW!)](https://twitter.com/moonmikkyu/status/1275987971640922112?s=20) and I could not get this thought of this pairing out of my head. 
> 
> Please do not worry too much about why this happens, just enjoy the intensely weird porn, maybe? Thanks to Mxticketyboo for the beta!

She does not often dream, but when she does, it is always of the Red Canyon. 

Caught and helpless, watching them slaughter her family under their banner of lies. Bones torn from the bodies of her brethren by savages, to be sharpened and honed and made into weapons. Beating hearts torn asunder, shoved bloody into sword hilts and polearms and bows. 

She dreams of _him_ , his eyes cruel and cold, his triumphant smirk as he stands amidst the slaughter. Swaying to the screams of the dying like it’s music. 

The night before the battle in the swamps near Garreg Mach, she dreams instead of Tailtean Plains. Straddling him on the ground, they way he’d looked when she’d driven her dagger deep. A human-made dagger of silver. His blood was not worthy enough to stain the bones of her fallen brethren. She can still feel it on her face, in her dreams. Taste the copper-sweet tang of it on her lips. 

She wakes breathless and tangled in the sheets of her bed, a wicked pulse between her legs, an ache. 

She knows that he is here. She can feel the dark call of him, the tainted magic that pulses like a headache. She finds the dagger in the chest she keeps by the foot of her bed, nestled amidst loose gems and gold coins and bits of jeweled fabric. The silver is polished to a shine, and she sees herself in its reflection; wide-eyed, still pale and weakened from captivity, tangled hair around the face she has worn for centuries. 

She feels the echo of her true self as she rises with the dagger in her hands, in the rustle of wings that aren’t there. She robes herself and slips out of her room, moving ghostlike through the halls of Garreg Mach, a whisper of white silk against stone. 

It is a warm evening, the moonlight spilling cold on the grass, and she thinks of the battle that will happen at dawn; the precious one who bears her mother’s stone-turned heart and their allies, fighting spectral automatons in the muddy swamps. She could, perhaps, end it now as she did then; armies circled around her in awe, watching as she drove the dagger home into the heart of the king of lies. Single combat was enough then, and weakened though she is, it would be enough, now. 

But it is no longer her war, and it is not her vengeance to take. That belongs to her mother. And she does not know what unholy magic brought him forth, or if he can even still bleed. 

She finds her way to the Holy Tomb, the shiver of anger passing through her as she remembers Edelgard’s betrayal. How distracted she’d been by Jeralt’s child, that strange creature with their sea-empty eyes and unknown face, still as familiar as a lullabye. 

The hilt of the dagger is warm in her hands as she descends to the sacred chamber beneath the earth. The evidence of that battle years ago is still there, overturned sarcophagi and shattered stones, broken glass littering the ground. A path of destruction that leads to the throne, where her oldest enemy waits for her once more. 

He sits sprawled on the Goddess’s throne, watching her from unnatural crimson eyes that glow like spilled blood. 

“Defiler,” she hisses, moving toward him, barely aware of the pain in her feet as they’re cut open by glass and jagged rocks. “You would dare sit the throne of the very Goddess whose children you destroyed?” 

“I would dare much,” he says, his voice shaking through her like thunder, pulling loose all the carefully tied knots of her rage. “Seiros. It has been some time.” His hell-tinted eyes are the only difference from the face burned into her memory, her dreams; the rest of him is just as she remembers, scarred skin, hair white as snow, powerful jaw and a sneer. 

“You should be in hell,” she says, voice trembling, as she stands before him. “And tomorrow, you will be.” 

“Perhaps,” he says, one shoulder lifted in a careless shrug. “I have slept in the dark since your blade tore me to pieces. Hell can be little different than that.” 

“You deserve to burn for an eternity,” she hisses, stepping up on the dais. Her eyes travel over him, her enemy, her nightmare made flesh. 

“Ah, but this is not about what we deserve anymore, is it, flower?” He tilts his head; there is something wrong with his voice, a hint of that dark magic that brought him back from the void. “It is someone else’s war, now. Are you not pleased that I’ve been made a weapon, just as I once did to your sisters and brothers?” 

“You would dare remind me,” she says, all her words lost, feeling the desire to shift burn through her like poison. Her skin feels tight, her bones ache with it. She wants claws and talons, she wants her _wings_. She wants to rip him to pieces and _devour_ him. 

He tips his face up to smirk at her, hateful creature that he is. “I will slay them all, tomorrow. Your champions. Will you be there? Will you watch as I tear them to pieces for you? Beautiful thing. You should be there. I want you to see it. Ah, but I can feel your rage. You hate me as much as you always have. How wonderful.” 

She makes a noise, a snarl pulled from her true nature rather than this pleasant face she wears. But she will not be made a fool of, not again, not here. She smiles back at him, bares teeth that are maybe a bit too sharp, and reaches down to pull the sash of her robe. It falls with a sigh around her. “You think to taunt me into doing it again, taking your life? Spare you the humiliation of facing the army who fights in my name, under my banner? No, Nemesis. I did that once. You do not deserve the Goddess’s mercy, and I have none to give for one such as you.” 

“You are no goddess,” he says, hot eyes burning like fire over her body. “But you are, as always, beautiful. What a gift it was, to be slain by such a beautiful beast.” 

Her teeth set. She moves closer, leans in and smacks him sharp across the face. Her fingers have turned to talons, and they scratch against skin that tears but does not bleed. “You are a memory trapped by unholy magic in a rotten skin.” 

“I am,” he agrees. “And so are you.” 

She glances down. He is dressed in nothing but loose pants, and there is something pushing up against the fabric, tenting it in a way that is all too obvious. She notices for the first time there is something in his hands, twisted around his wrists. Rope. 

“Come, flower,” he says, and holds up his hands like he’s giving her tribute. “Bind me with your rage, take me again like you did before. I may fall into the flames of hell tomorrow, or maybe it is only the dark that awaits. It may be that your army will emerge victorious. But I would live just a bit, before I am sent to the killing fields.” 

She takes the rope he hands her, feels the rough texture slide between her fingers. She grows wet between her legs at the thought of it, binding him for her pleasure on the throne he will never have, of the Goddess whose avatar will see him defeated come morning. She moves with inhuman grace and cuts the fabric of his trousers from him, pulling them away, leaving him naked. His cock rises proud between his legs, and his laugh is a serrated blade, jagged and sharp. 

“That’s it, flower,” he breathes, watching as she takes the hilt of the dagger between her teeth and sets to binding his arms behind his back, her fingers sure as they tie the knots. “Take your pleasure of me with your body just as you took my life with your blade. Ah, Seiros, you think I did not notice how you liked it? I died with the sight of you burned behind my eyes. Your bloodlust sated. Did it feel good to watch me die?” 

“Yes,” she hisses around the hilt of her dagger, shoving him back against the throne and straddling his heavy thighs. She takes the dagger from her mouth, traces it over his throat, his shoulder, down to his chest. She touches the tip of the blade to the scars she left there before, when she tore through skin, went deep and pierced his heart. “I hope it hurt. I hope you died in agony.” 

“Oh, it did hurt,” he breathes, hips pushing up, his cock growing impossibly harder between his legs as she rubs herself against it. “I was torn asunder for you. Choked on my lifeblood when I tried to curse your name with my dying breath.” 

She shifts on top of him, slides forward, presses her mouth to the scar and _bites_. Her teeth go sharp, but when his skin tears there’s no blood, just a dark mist that tastes like sulfur and makes her eyes burn like smoke. His skin simply reforms as the mist fades, and she thinks _how will they kill him, tomorrow, when the time comes for battle? If his skin cannot be torn, if no heart beats beneath his breast, how will they defeat him?_

“Curse me now, if you want,” she says, pulling back. She places the knife at his throat, then smiles grimly at him and drags it across, slow and purposeful, thrilling at the cut even if it does no damage, causes no pain. “Curse it all you want, treacherous snake.” 

Miasma pours from the wound and obscures his face; for a moment all she can see is the hellish burn of his eyes before it clears, leaving his throat unmarred. He laughs, broad shoulders shaking in misplaced mirth, powerful thighs flexing beneath hers. “You’ve already left your scars, Seiros. Our battle is long over, a thing of legends. Do you still have that sword I made from your mother’s spine? I should like to see it again. It was always my favorite.” 

She makes an incoherent sound of rage and presses the knife to his throat, rising up and reaching down with her free hand to grab his cock and position it. When she sinks down, he groans and strains against the ropes by which she’s bound him, lifting his hips to drive himself to the hilt inside of her. “No doubt you will see everything you have wrought on the morrow,” she promises, beginning to ride him, knife still pressed against his neck. “I hope you fall beneath your legacy, Nemesis. I hope it shatters you into nothing and sends you terrified back down to the dark from which they dragged you.” 

“I thought --” he gasps, as they move together, “that you wanted me to burn?” 

“Burn _now_ ,” she says, back arching, the fullness of cock delicious inside of her. “And I will leave you to the Goddess when the time comes.” 

“You should have mounted me in our battle before you took my life,” Nemesis says, with a heavy thrust of his hips that makes her shudder all over. “I would have liked it.” 

“Degenerate,” she bites out, talons digging into his shoulder and shredding skin. Dark magic blooms like a flower, leaving him untouched and her gasping, breathing in the scent of hellfire. “Defiler.” 

“Monster,” he breathes. “Unnatural creature. Disgraceful one. Does your army know the truth of you?” 

She stabs him for that and he laughs; if it hurts he gives no indication of it, and with every wild thrust of the knife, every scratch of the talons her nails have become, he simply fucks up into her and smiles like she’s giving back the life she took so long ago. 

She rides him and leans forward to press her mouth to his ear, choking on the mist that rises from her shredding claws and tearing blade. “You are no king of liberation now, Nemesis. No more a human than I am. Of all the terrible fates I could have chosen for you, perhaps this is the best of all.” 

“I will slay your army and I will come back for you,” he says, panting, as they twist and writhe together in a spill of dark magic, on a throne no longer fit for any Goddess, in a tomb already defiled. “You cannot spill my blood but I will come to you covered in theirs. Weep your dragon’s tears when you see it and know you are defeated.’ 

“You will die tomorrow like you did before,” she says, nearing her peak, grinding against him. She tosses the dagger to the ground. “And if you do not, if you come here covered in blood that isn’t yours, I will rip your throat apart with my teeth and devour whatever sick magic brought you out of hell. Watch your eyes fade. Again.” 

She grabs his hair with the hand that held the dagger, stares into his red eyes, searches for the man that was once there and thinks maybe this is who he’s always been. “Say my name when you come. Like you wanted to on the Tailtean Plains. If you can.” 

He bares his teeth at her and she bounces on his thighs, fucks herself on his cock, pulls his hair. She stares into the wicked dark heart of him as he gasps under the onslaught of her pleasure, just as he once gasped out his last breath under her blade. 

Something brightens up the dark around them; lines that twist together and burn like fire. The Crest of Flames hangs there like a call to arms, shivering in the air for a hateful moment until it fades back into nothing. 

His scarred, bound body shudders and twists beneath her and he bucks up, driving his cock as hard as he can into her slick heat as he comes. “Seiros,” he says. “Seiros, _Seiros_ \--” 

It sounds, somehow, less like a curse and more like a prayer. 

She comes with the sound of it trapped in the air of the holy tomb, echoing like the pleasure that sparks white and hot through her. She throws her head back and roars, unnatural as the monstrous thing he’s always known her to be. There is no thought save the rise and fall of it, the delicious spasms as she wrings every last second of it from his cock, his body. 

She climbs off him when it is done, retrieves her dagger, but leaves the robe. “Your army of ghosts is no match for my champion, Nemesis. Sleep well. May you rot this time, and your bones turn to dust as they ought.” 

“And may your champions learn the hateful truth of you, and turn yours to weapons,” Nemesis calls after her. “One day we will both be nothing but legends, flower. But the battlefields never will be. War always endures.” 

She does not deign to respond. 

Seiros walks naked and unseen through the tomb, leaving bloody footprints in her wake for him to follow, as he always has -- and, though she will not admit the truth of it, as he always will. If not him, then one of his ilk. Humans ever eager to slay the things they don’t understand. 

Outside, the sun is beginning to rise. The battlefield awaits.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me about weird pairings and anything really on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/dustofwarfare)


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